


Bottling Light

by shadows_and_afterimages



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Day 4: Ritual, Hannictober Challenge, M/M, Part of a (unwritten) series, just a lot of feels, let's just ignore what day it already is, so yeah it's not the end, twotl-like ending actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadows_and_afterimages/pseuds/shadows_and_afterimages
Summary: John Hopkins intern-era Hannibal abducted fifteen-year-old Will from the streets of New Orleans while he was there on a school trip. Will was sure they had never met before.This is what happened after.





	Bottling Light

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there.

Hannibal was with him nearly constantly, at first. It was not obsession, no. The difference was not difficult to tell. If Will had to put a name to the way Hannibal’s eyes lingered on him in those first few years (he was still allowed enough freedom to keep track of time back then), it was more of a detached curiosity, laced with perplexed contempt.

Which was perplexing in and of itself, considering Will was sure they’d never come into contact before their lives collided.

His drug-addled mind didn’t allow him to linger on it for long. It’s alright. The distracting buzz at the back of his mind was as much of a constant in Will’s life as the room he was now almost never allowed to wander out of, as the sound of distant waves that followed him days and nights.

He wasn’t sure if they were actually close to the ocean, or it was just yet another figment of his imagination. He’d spent so much time with no alternative for company,  _desired_ company, that it’d become hard to tell. It’s soothing, either way, so he let it be.

He didn’t remember much from before, and almost nothing of Before--even his past was divided in two, separated by the moment Hannibal happened. What little he could recall, he didn’t quite trust. Will vaguely remembered at time when Hannibal was relaxed and accommodating, when, after he’d been subjected to the day’s medication, he would be allowed to walk with guardian (captor) outside. They really did live by the ocean, he remembered now. The sea salt on his lips, the wind ruffling his hair.

And then there was the food. Evenings together when Hannibal would patiently walk him through all the rules and etiquette involved in a full-course dinner. Quiet afternoon together in Hannibal’s pristine kitchen, sunlight filtering through large glass windows, basking everything in a million shades of gold.

Will had not been allowed into the kitchen for a very long time. He wasn’t sure if Hannibal even kept a kitchen still. He certainly no longer stayed here for long enough to warrant one.

The thought occurred to Will through the lazy haze of the drug, that he was probably one of those people who never knew how good they had it until it’s all gone.

He moved his head a fraction, and suddenly, the room felt too big, and he was so very, very small. Will nearly went cross-eyed trying to hold on to the sensation. A wrong eye movement, and this strange altered vision would be gone, he knew from experience.

He’d had it good, then he’d had to go and try to escape.

Hannibal was calm, and patient, and careful. He was a long-term planner, a perfectionist right down to the way he dressed. Not the best situation for a desperate, spur-of-the-moment attempt to have any real chance of success.

Besides, Hannibal had captured him once before, with seemingly no prior connection, no apparent motive or even the slightest hint of a mutual point of contact. While the how was out of the question with his mind’s blank slate when it came to anything _Before_ , he was still yet to know _why._

So, Will didn’t make the mistake of simply waiting for a good opportunity to come up. Unfortunately, he managed to dig himself an even larger hole.

He managed to befriend his captor.

In all honesty, Hannibal was a good friend. A great best friend _cum_ host, even. He was understanding, attentive, knowledgeable. He was full of interesting quirks and intriguing points of view, an excellent conversationalist. And since they were always alone together, Will certainly never felt like he had to share.

He wasn’t sure why he still proceeded with the plan. In his moments of (relative) clarity, he wondered it was because Hannibal had upped his meds to the point he no longer had the mental capacity to second-guess. He probably did, Hannibal was a jerk that way.

And then, his mind inevitably wandered to the next question: whether he would have stopped if he’d had the chance to choose, or were they doomed regardless of Hannibal’s actions?

He never found a satisfying answer.

The consequences of that particular fuckup did answer a few other questions Will had, though. He’d thought Hannibal imperturbable, before. No matter what a younger (teenaged, really, but who _actually_ wanted to align themselves with that particular stereotype?) Will had thrown at him--temper tantrums, rude snarks, inane requests that completely went against Hannibal’s usual taste and style--nothing seemed to touch even the edge of his high throne.

But Will’s betrayal, if he could really call it that (were they friends, or enemies?), managed to.

Sometimes, he wondered whether the real reason he was no longer allowed into the kitchen was because of what he’d attempted to do, or because of what Hannibal might do to him--again.

Nevertheless, he’d miraculously managed the unmanageable: Hannibal left him mostly alone after that.

It felt good, to finally be able to influence the influencer.

And that’s how he ended up here. Will looked around, and the familiar space had somewhat ceased to feel warped. Thick books lined two of the walls. On one side, Hannibal’s old, dusty medical texts prevailed. They were one of the first things Will had finally shown some interest in, after coming here, and Hannibal had, obviously, indulged.

The other wall housed an ever-growing collection.

It would no doubt have been a criminal profiler’s wet dream, Will thought with a smile as he groggily got up, crossing the short distance to trail his hand over their prized collection--the only thing in his life that he could at least claim shared ownership. Case files, published books, pictures, recordings, handwritten notes. A mixture of Hannibal’s OCD neatness and Will’s organized chaos.

His smile faded as he reached a meager row of dog-eared, barely holding together books and notes, tucked away in a corner. These were the only things that preceded Hannibal in his life, barring his own body.

Funny how it wasn’t even his lifelong obsession with serial killers that’d led him straight into the hands of one.

Will wondered if that gave him any valid excuse for taking so long to recognize Hannibal for what he was.

A knock on the door pulled Will out of his thoughts. There had been no sound of approaching footstep. There would be no sound as Hannibal walked away.

Will retrieved his supplies for the day from the sliding tray, ignoring the well-prepared meal to go for the box of parts. Sitting down on the carpeted floor, he started working.

Hannibal had, as always, followed his request down to the letters. The extra Christmas lights, completed with wires and batteries, were arranged neatly in a tiny wooden matchbox-sized box.

It was dusk when Hannibal came knocking again. It always was.

Will was already done. He gathered his things and stood up just as the padded door slid open.

They walked in silence, Will leading the way, Hannibal barely a step behind. Familiar route, familiar sight, familiar rites.

Will looked back at the house when they reached the spot. The path felt shorter every subsequent time. Part of it really was disappearing--the cliff was now barely a meager fifty feet from the house. The bluff was eroding, had been ever since Will first stepped foot here.

Will stepped close to the edge, contemplating jumping as he looked down at the waves crashing against black, uneven rocks.

He was aware of Hannibal’s eyes on him. They both knew Will wouldn’t, not when Hannibal himself was standing back, safely out of reach.

As the last remnants of the sun died behind them, its orange-pink-purple ghosts on the puffy clouds over the eastern sea fading into ash, Will stretched his arm wide and flung the bottle away, as far as he could, into the rapidly darkening sea.

No matter how many times he’d done this, Will could never quite predict what would happen. He knew, technically, if he dropped it too close to the cliff, it could shatter right on one of the rocks below, or that no matter how much force he used, the impact with water that far down could have been enough to destroy the fragile glass. Sometimes, however, against all odds, it survived, bobbling on top of frothy waves, silver tongues swallowing it up, spitting it out, carrying it with them far, far away, to places its creator could never be.

It did, again, today. From this height, Will could barely make out the blob of feeble, sickly yellow light on the bottomless, border-less pit of darkness that was the night sea. For all he knew, the beautiful white sailboat he’d put together inside the bottle, part by part, was nothing more than broken wood chips by now. Still, it’d survived that long, and its journey would continue.

Will spared a thought to all of its siblings; some had stayed forever under the wave just down below their feet, some had had their remains scattered across the ocean. Some might have ended up in someone else’s hands, now that he thought about it. He wondered what people would have seen in those broken, abandoned things. What stories they might have conjured up, what sort of bizarre explanation.

They stayed long after the last trace of sunlight had vanished from the sky, long enough for the moon to convince their eyes that the absence of her counterpart wasn't really so bad. When Will finally turned around, Hannibal wasn't watching the crescent moon's reflection getting continually broken up by the ever changing sea. That's right, he could have taken a look whenever he wanted. Instead, his eyes, dark and deep and glistening with reflected moonlight just like the vast ocean Will had just turned his back on, were fixed on Will.

Without a word, Will started making his way back to the dark, looming structure that was their sanctuary. No one had bothered to turn on the light.

Hannibal didn't offer Will any new _plaything_ before they parted ways, and Will didn't ask. He lingered in the doorway, however, and Will raised an eyebrow before making a show of looking around the familiar space. Someone had cleaned the room, and new files had been added to the collection. He figured that would be his means of entertainment instead, for however long it took for Hannibal to attend to his _other businesses._

All it all, there was not much to look at; the room was basically a fancy version of a padded cell. Nothing in there Will could consider personal--Hannibal’s touch had perpetuated even the rows of books. It still looked empty, even though it's been years since Will lost his collection of model ships, constructed with utmost patience and care, inside glass bottles.

Will hadn't been allowed more than one single bottle within his vicinity ever since Miriam Lass.

It was not a punishment, no. Merely precaution. It was fair enough--Will had taken advantage of Hannibal’s unconditional belief that some forms of arts were beyond scheming and manipulation, in order to keep a plethora of probable weapons within reach, and he couldn't complain about having to give it up after he'd make use of its availability and shatter Hannibal’s trust.

It had been worth it.

_No more than one houseguest at a time, Hannibal. Don't be rude._

Nobody else deserved the life he'd been living.

Ironically, Will was quite certain it was that one rebellious, spur-of-the-moment act that rekindled Hannibal’s interest in him.

_For all my knowledge and intrusion, I could never quite predict you._

I could say the same for you, except that I wasn't sure you'd appreciate the first half, Will would have said. In truth, he was rather embarrassed that it'd taken Miriam Lass for him to see Hannibal for who he truly was.

Oh, he'd known for a long time _what_ Hannibal was, alright. That part was easy. To be able to place a name, a style, a set of tableau, to the knowledge, however, was quite different.

Will could never quite forget the full frontal assault on his senses when he came face-to-face with Hannibal’s work for the first time.

He'd had to set himself apart in Will’s mind even in this, hadn't he.

It didn't matter, not really. Not when Hannibal had wormed his way into every other part of Will's brain, carving out a space for himself until there was nothing left intact for an independent existence. Not when his entire life had revolved around another's for so long. He thought of his bottles, shattered, adrift, lost. 

_I don't know where I'd be without him._

Perhaps that was why he didn't leave, when Hannibal’s visits became few and far between, and the drugs’ influence waned. Why he'd stayed, when Hannibal finally returned--with the Dragon on his heels. Why he watched on when every instinct told him to turn his back and run, why he picked up the weapons--there were so many of them around, the gun, the knife, the shards of glass, but he wouldn't have noticed them if he hadn’t cared.

Why he fought, and killed--again.

And they finally triumphed, alone again on the same cliff they’d stood on together so many times before, bloodied, injured, and in so many ways, fulfilled. Hannibal smiled at Will as he managed to get up, reaching for him with an outstretched arm.

_This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us._

Will looked at the offered hand, wondering if Hannibal was seeing the gesture in the same way he himself was. He took it, allowing himself to be pulled, up, then close. Resting his head against fine cashmere (and silken skin and warm muscles beneath), he made one last attempt to commit it all to memory: the sensation, the tastes, the scents, the overwhelming _wholeness_ of having the locus of what seemed like his entire life finally within arm's reach.

_It's beautiful._

He closed his eyes, pushing forward with all he had left.

And then they were falling.

**Author's Note:**

> Hah, a random no-talk-all-feels oneshot with ambiguous settings and way too many broken sentences, to balance out my dialogue-overload brain. I'm all good now. *no it was still so damn difficult*
> 
> Anyway, this is, probably predictably from me, part of yet another unwritten series. The other two parts basically explained why Hannibal acted the way he did, so if you felt kinda out of the loop regarding this version of him, no worries, Will was too.
> 
> *sigh* Please excuse my all-over-the-place muse. I'm basically letting my brain run its course in preparation for NaNoWriMo, but I'll try to wrap these things up best as I could before Oct 31st.


End file.
